My Dad loved rhubarb. I say ‘loved’ because he died four years ago. I still think of him every day, though, and there are so many things, including rhubarb, that remind me of him. Pickled herring in sour cream, for example. My sisters and I turned our noses up at the sight of it, but Dad loved it. The song When I’m Calling You—he hummed it all the time (I think it was big in the 1940’s). And
the rhubarb. My Dad didn’t cook—he was a doctor and didn’t have much free time—but he loved rhubarb so much that throughout the spring months he would cook it up with sugar and water until it had completely fallen apart into a stringy mess of pink goo. That really made him happy. He didn’t even need any vanilla ice cream to eat with it. Just rhubarb. I know this dessert composition
would have made him really happy, too — a spicy ginger ice cream made with a generous amount of fresh ginger and topped off with a sweet-tart rhubarb-strawberry compote. It’s a wonderful combination. I don’t cook my rhubarb as long as Dad did, only because it looks better in the bowl. Not that he would’ve cared about that.
